


Caravan Life

by littleblackneko



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character with OCD, Character with dysthymia, Homophobia, Nonbinary Character, Other, Queer Platonic Partners, Reference to self harm, Transphobia, Trigger warnings:, character with DPD, features:, reference to suicide, tw: previous abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackneko/pseuds/littleblackneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy Mayer ran away from an abusive home after coming out as nonbinary when they were eighteen years and built a new life from the shattered remains of their past. Now, though, now a reminder of the past has decided to return and send Andy spiraling back into the memories of days past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greatveiledbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatveiledbear/gifts).



I had foolishly thought that when I told my mother, that perhaps things would get easier. I generally shouldn't believe my thoughts.  
It had been three years since Roger had become one with an eighteen-wheeler. Mom seemed to be in less hysterics than usual, which didn't exactly mean much, but I figured it was worth a try. Amongst her other piles of drivel, her recountings of my failures, her terrifying possessiveness of my sister Maria, her shoutings at our tears...well, amongst that, she had been frequently been declaring her hatred of having only girls left.

  
She did not respond as positively as I thought she would to finding that I wasn't a girl.

  
In fact, it was screaming that she would never accept me, throwing a family photo album at my head as a I tried to run to my bedroom. I guessed what was coming.  
"Get out, Lisa"

  
_I'm not Lisa_. I was foolish to talk back.

  
She told me I would never replace Roger.

  
As if that was my fucking intention.

  
And that was it. I wasn't her daughter anymore, but I'd already known that for a year and a half. More importantly, i wasn't her child anymore now. Instead, i was out the door with her calling snidely for Andy fucking Mayer to "keep in touch", leaving my little sister and my old life behind.

  
I did.

  
Maybe it was petty, but I did keep in touch. When I left there with only a hoodie and shorts in January, and seventy two dollars and twelve cents to live off of, I promised myself I would document every single petty thing my mom would hate. I took a picture of myself on the bus with the cheapest fare, to some sort of ruins of a town in Ohio, and sent it to her to prove that I was leaving. I took a picture of myself at work. At a porn store. Suprisingly my coworkers were actually pretty great, and I wasn't the only one that pretended to lick the dildos (Mom definitely saw those pictures). I slept outside during my stint there, finding whatever bench had the most trees near it and putting my money to useful things like food, water, and the cell phone bill. The only people I had in my contacts were Marcus (my boss), two coworkers, and my mother. But trust me, I needed it. Oh yeah, my mom got bench pictures too. It was more fun to send them when I could see the snow on the ground.

  
She never wrote back, of course. Her pride wouldn't have allowed for it. Marcus eventually found out I was a street urchin and hooked me up with a job at a publishing firm that printed real novels instead of selling lewd ones. I'm pretty sure Marcus was my first actual friend. I took a picture to send my mom on the first day at the firm, with a little nametag that said Andy on it. They didn't care there. Everyone was a little bit different. But I guess that's to be expected from an indie publishing group. I didn't use my increased salary for an apartment yet. It was still too expensive and there were some necessary modifications I needed. Like a psychiatrist for example. I've got this fancy shmancy depressive thing called dysthymia and I was so low when I couldn't afford my medication that the gouges my fingernails made grew deeper and more frequent. I got some body altercations as well. My mom got to see the gauges go in, the nose ring and eyebrow piercings too. I showed her when I shaved the sides of my head and turned the top to brocolli green. I could imagine her freaking out, breaking dishes or my self esteem. But she didn't have the power to be scary about these things, and my fear of her wasn't gone, but it was certainly hiding now. The hysterics I imagined seemed a bit funny at a distance. She got to see every tattoo except the first one. I had sunsets and street fairs, dandelion fields and dragons painted on my skin and I sent my mother snapshots of all of them except the first. Simple black words on the inside of my arm in elegant script. The top said "I will make words instead of scars" and the bottom: "I will find peace." Dwyer, my tattoo guy, suggested them as my mantra after we talked for a while. He had just gotten out of the day program at the city's mental health facility after his dependency kept him clinging to an abusive girlfriend. He understood me better than anyone, what my life had been, and he was my second real friend.

  
And of course my mom heard about Ian. It's not often the platonic love of your life sits on you while you're asleep and ends up asking you to live with him. I think the exact message I sent with his picture was "Look who I'm not having super hetero sex with!" No replies of course. Ian and I have adapted swimmingly to getting under each other's feet. I'm pretty sure I drive him up a wall with my tornado routine that leaves everything out of place in the mornings. And maybe he drives me a little wild too, but it's of no concern to either of us. It's like that symbiosis thing they talk about in science: mutual benefit. We're each other's dear queerplatonic partners who watch cartoons together and doodle and take visits from his mom sometimes and I'd have to say times are pretty good right now. That doesn't mean we're always perfect. Of course we're not. Ian is working to tame some of his more obsessive habits and that takes his toll, and I'm still depressed and a little bit haunted. We're helping each other. We've got the blueprints for each other to figure out where the holes are and what words are needed to temporarily close them up.

  
Like right now for example. I'm staring out the window onto a skyline that blurry with rain and I can smell Ian's making tea for me. He'll be up for an hour scrubbing the stain out and I appreciate his sacrifice more than he knows. i'm remembering tonight. Remembering all the horrible times I had, the abuse and the freezing cold winters I slept outside before Ian found me. Those beginnings were godawful...but they traced a path. A path to Marcus and Dwyer and Ian and this new life I built up for myself from seventy three dollars and twelve cents. I take a picture of the skyline. I take a picture of Ian with a serious face on as he carries the tea so carefully to make sure he doesn't spill a drop and mess up his carpet and the serving size. My phone slides back into my pocket. Ian drops down on the couch next to me and puts a friendly kiss on the side of my head like a gentle paper swan. I soak in his presence, the night, the way Oolong smells in my nose. This night belongs to me, Andy Mayer.

  
Not my mother.

 


	2. A Gift

"You seem down, Andy." Ian's on the couch next to me and his voice is soft and kind. I take the cup of tea he holds out to me, ruffling his hair, "I mean, like, I don't know...is this one of your bad days?"

"Not necessarily bad just...melancholy. But victorious," I explain, and Ian nods like he understands, so I take it that he does. The memories...well they've never really left me behind. When I think of my mother and the way she treated me, it's never just her that invades. It's also remembering Roger, who I lost when he jumped in front of a truck. It's remembering Maria, and how her nose would wrinkle when she laughed as we rode scooters down the block and how it would do the same when she was curled up against my side sobbing about Mom and I was trying to reassure her that it wouldn't always be like this. I never said goodbye. She would be eighteen now.  
But I survived. I walked out the door and never turned around. I was free from Mom and her vice grip. After all the dark days, my life had turned out pretty alright . I was a champion. But that didn't always make it hurt less. 

"Well..." Ian got that little half-smile when he had good news to cheer me up . Of course Ian-news wasn't built to fix everything, but he did know how to make me happy...Ian excelled at that. "You moved in here two years ago tomorrow. But I'm going to give you your present an hour early."

He handed me a small purple box with a ribbon wrapped around it and tied in a perfect bow that it almost seemed a shame to wreck. Almost. I slid the ribbon untied smoothly, opening the box to see a yellowish rectangle in it . A rectangle that said--

"You got us fucking front row Billy Joel tickets?!" 

"Um, maybe?" Ian smiled gently at me and let me fall against his chest and squeal like a happy little kid. I felt his chuckle against the side of my head and snuggled up closer.  
"Ian, you know we can't afford this, right? I can't pay you back for this."

"You don't need to pay me back, darling. My parents asked what i wanted for my birthday and what I wanted was for you to have something for dealing with me for two years."  
"Well first off," I reached up and swatted at him, "it's not a 'dealing with' situation. Second off, bless your soul you beautiful, beautiful man and bless the Rushmore parentals for having a shitton of money."

"Well since you put it so eloquently," Ian laughed gently, "You're quite welcome." His baby face was so precious in that moment that I tilted my head up and kissed the bottom of his chin. Back when we met, I would've declared the young man in my company my boyfriend in a second, but what with Ian being aromantic, that idea didn't fly too well. Now, though, I'm glad it didn't. That wasn't our fate. It was this: queer platonic partners. Perfect. "Oh, and Andy, don't worry. I bought three tickets in case you wanted to go with Marcus and Dwyer instead." 

"Don't be ridiculous, E, of course I want to go with you. However, right now I'm going to bed." I stood up with effort, ruffled Ian's hair, and headed towards my bedroom, "G'night dork!" I called behind me out of habit.

"G'night, my QP-Angel," Ian called back, gathering the tea mugs we'd finished over the course of our conversation and heading over to the sink to wash them. 

Despite the memories of previous days, I was peaceful. 

Of course, that wasn't going to last long.


	3. A Reunion

Ch 2: A Reunion  
Needless to say, I wasn't pleased to wake up with a cell phone against my ear. I glared up at Ian, who looked at me sheepishly, "It kept ringing. I lost count of my row." Damn crocheting disrupting my sleep.   
Like my usual charming self, I snapped, "What the hell do you want at eight-fuckin-thirty in the morning" into the line. Anyone who would call this number would be used to my language, I presumed,and, well, this whole mess of a personality.   
"I'm sorry, you," a flustered girl on the other end replied, "you used to wake up so early." Because I had a list from my head to my knees of tasks for my mother that I had to complete if I didn't want to suffer even more, but--  
"How the hell do you know that?" I shot straight upright in bed, whipping green hair out of my face. No one knew about that, I hadn't told anyone the details of what my mom did except Ian. Only Ian. "Speaking of which, who the hell is this?"   
"I've missed you. I've missed your voice."   
"Who. Is. This."  
"Check your caller ID." I pull the phone away from my ear in a huff, and my head recoils at the name.  
"That answered nothing," I mutter grumpily, " You obviously aren't my mother."   
"After the first picture, Mom gave the phone to me. I've wanted to call for so long but I've been scared she'd find out. Zero contact was the rule."   
"Wait...Maria?" My voice cracked without my permission, and I unconsciously rubbed at my eyes as they grew wet.   
"Hi, Andy."   
"What the... Holy hell, is that really you?" Stupid voice. Stupid tears. Stupid fucking emotions. I couldn't believe how much I had missed her. I didn't really know the extent until I heard the voice that belonged to my sister. My little sister.   
"Yeah." She sounded like the warm yellow petals of a sunflower, and I was well-awake now, overcome with the urge to just be surrounded by the presence of Maria Mayer.   
"Where are you?" I asked cautiously, because this was perfect and I didn't want it interrupted by the horror of my mother's voice.  
"Would you believe in a hotel on my way to smalltown Ohio?"   
"So you're..."   
"I want to see you, Andy, and I can't go back home."   
"That place isn't a home. You're welcome to stay with us."   
"Wait, what," Ian called from outside the room, "What's going on?" He came pacing in, a look of concern spreading across his face when he saw my disgustingly emotional face, "Andy, what did they do?" Breath fluttered delicately from between his lips, "Who hurt you?"   
"I gotta go," I whispered into the line and hung up, clinging to every syllable she had uttered, clinging to the fact that I would see her, I would be with her, /I was going to see my sister./   
"That was Maria, E."   
And like that, he understood.   
I soaked his shirt for the better part of an hour.


End file.
